


For the Love of Cheap Liquor

by Cryowen



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Excessive Cursing, M/M, Puzzles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryowen/pseuds/Cryowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where the fuck does Sleuth keep the liquor in this place? Does he even have liquor? Your name is Spades Slick, and you are far too drunk for this stupid puzzle shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Love of Cheap Liquor

**Author's Note:**

> There isn't enough stupid puzzle shit in Problem Sleuth fanfic, so this piece has nothing but. This was originally meant to be part of a larger work, but didn't fit quite right, so now it lives here.

Where the fuck does Sleuth keep the liquor in this place? Does he even have liquor? "Don't tell me you're too fucking broke to afford a bottle of shitty illicit booze you putz." Your name is Spades Slick, and you are far too drunk for this stupid puzzle shit.  
  
You've been sitting on the floor in front of the couch for a solid hour, using one of your more detail-oriented knives to pry the colored bits off the two rubix cubes you found while ransacking the tiny apartment. You barely register the sound of the front door unlocking and a body slumping back against it as it closes.  
  
You pop another corner bit off one of the cubes.  
  
"...what the hell are you doing?" Problem Sleuth stares blankly at the growing piles of carefully-sorted plastic edges. He'd be dumber than you thought to be surprised at your breaking and entering, what with the convenient fire-escape, and seems to be taking your presence in stride.  
  
"I'm solving the stupid fucking puzzle on your goddamn radiator."  
  
"Doesn't look that way."  
  
"Fuck you and everyone who looks like you." Tucking the knife back into your deck of cards, you pick up one of the rubix skeletons and begin clicking the pieces back on.  
  
"That's not how you-"  
  
"You ever solved one of these things?"  
  
"Well, no, bu-"  
  
"Then shut the fuck up." You may have been born at night, but it wasn't last night, and you didn't build this city by being a rule-mongering assclown. You deal with temporal shenanigans on a weekly basis. Spades Slick isn't about to get beat by a hunk of colored plastic.  
  
Two cubes down.  
  
"Where's the third one, jackass?"  
  
"In with the celery, I think."  
  
You gag as Sleuth slips into his sad excuse for a kitchen to retrieve the last rubix cube from amongst the offending vegetables. As he drops it in your lap, you chuck the other two at his head. "Put these wherever the fuck they go and get me your least shitty hooch."  
  
"Not until you finish that one."  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
Sleuth shakes his head as you snap at him and go for your knives, holding his cube-filled hands up in a pacifying gesture. "No, I actually can't get into the liquor cabinet until you solve the last cube. Or whatever the hell it is you're doing."  
  
You ease back. Just as well, your knees don't want you standing up anytime soon and Sleuth's shins have taken enough of your abuse for the week. "Fucking ridiculous, ass-shitting puzzle crap." Drinking does wonders for your vocabulary. Amidst a cloud of colorful swears, you pry apart and rearrange the last cube. You consider letting this one fly at Sleuth's face as well, but instead you roll onto your knees and clamber to your feet with the cracking sound of stiff joints. "Godfuckingdamnit."  
  
Sleuth doesn't comment. You know for a fact that he nearly threw out his back a month ago. "These go... What? On the top?" Your cursory examination of the radiator revealed three indents in the top, each one with a different color of flaking paint. You turn the cube in your hands to the red side, and place it in the corresponding slot. There's a rattling noise from inside the radiator and a small brass key drops out of the bottom and onto the carpet. "You've got to be shitting me."  
  
"What's the matter, Slick? Never solved a radiator before?" That has got to be the single-most shit-eating grin you've ever seen on Sleuth's smug fucking face. A new record. You punch him in the stomach and pick up the key while Sleuth doubles over, wheezing. You'd have picked up the other two cubes, except they seem to have gone into Sleuth's inventory when you hit him.  
  
"Cough up the goods, asshole." You learned three or four muggings ago that riffling through pockets and coat folds wasn't going to turn up any of the unwieldy items Sleuth managed to carry on his person without logical explanation. You opt to prod him less than gently with your foot. "C'mon, I'm sobering up over here." It's a goddamn tragedy, but you can't tell if that's motivating Sleuth at all. Either way, you end up with three rubix cubes in three holes and three brass keys in your hand.  
  
You make a beeline to the shoddy piano Sleuth keeps pushed over in a corner of the living room. You've noticed on previous ransacking escapades that the lid over the keys is kept locked, with three separate keyholes. Like hell you were going to take one of Droog's guns to the thing; even if their alternate state wasn't a card, you don't think it would be terribly effective.  
  
The keys fit, the cover unlocks, and you swing it back to reveal... A perfectly normal keyboard.  
  
Well, fuck.  
  
"It'll usually take Moonlight Sonata."  
  
"Like hell you can play that from memory." Sleuth has got a bit of musical talent, you'll admit, but it isn't geared towards the classical. Neither is yours. Instead, you whip out a tune you and the Crew put together. Nightlife, you think Droog called it. He and Boxcars had the best luck naming shit. Names aside, you assume that the tune worked-- judging by the chimes you hear ringing from...  
  
"Huh. It usually opens up in the hall."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The Humidor."  
  
"...what?"  
  
Sleuth shakes his head at you, and disappears into his room. He comes back, glances around the living room, and goes back to the front door.  
  
"That fuck do you think you're going?"  
  
"Keep your pants on. I'm getting the key." He reappears, apparently having retrieved a key from under the mat outside. "Or take them off. Make yourself comfortable."  
  
You feel heat flare up in your face and down your neck. Palming a knife, you follow Sleuth into the kitchen.  
  
"And the copper cigar goes here," he pulls a, well, copper cigar out of his inventory and affixes it to the handleless cabinet you failed to pry open earlier.  
  
"Fuck me sideways. All that to get the goddamn handle to your fucking liquor cabinet?"  
  
"Yeah, but I keep the key under the front mat."  
  
"You fucking tool." Sitting at the table, you let Sleuth pour you a glass of whiskey. "So that's it then? Puzzle shit solved?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah I guess it is."  
  
"Fucking finally." You slug back half the glass in one go, and Sleuth is good enough to refill it for you. "What? Not going to celebrate the victory over your goddamn liquor cabinet?"  
  
Sleuth shrugs, taking a seat kitty-corner to you. "I feel like sleeping tonight."  
  
"Fucking loser."  
  
"Bloodthirsty gnome." You choke on your drink. The alcohol burns your throat like the Crew in Felt manor with a few gallons of kerosene. "Ex-fucking-scuse me?"  
  
"Sorry, I thought we were stating obvious character flaws again."  
  
You grab that ugly green tie in one hand and punch the smug asshole in the face. With your face. What? Your other hand was busy with the glass.  



End file.
